Survivor
by Luvvycat
Summary: A follow-up story to my Drabble, "Aftermath." Humour. Lieutenant Theodore Groves managed to survive the destruction of the Endeavour, only to find himself in a situation where he may well die of embarrassment ... Rated "T" for minor suggestive themes.


**Survivor  
**by Luvvycat

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_**A/N:** After posting my recent AWE drabble, "Aftermath", in which I stated that there were no survivors to the sinking of the_ Endeavour_, several of the kind souls who posted Comments on my LJ site expressed a wish that Lieutenant Groves had somehow managed to survive. This is my (hopefully, humourous...at least it's intended to be) response to the suggestion._

_Be suitably warned that it's rather farcical, quite naughty indeed, and definitely qualifies as Crack!fic (my maiden attempt at such). Please also note that this is un-betaed, just as it's come out of my sick, twisted little mind ... Hope you enjoy!_

_-- Cat_

* * *

Teddy Groves had been thoroughly convinced he was going to die…

From the moment he saw the _Flying Dutchman_ and the _Black Pearl_ turn, set parallel courses, and manoeuvre to flank the _Endeavour_, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that disaster was imminent. When he saw their gun-ports open to let free their cannons, he knew they were in very deep trouble, indeed!

He had turned to their Commander, Lord Cutler Beckett, for leadership, cried out for orders that were not forthcoming… watched as Beckett's pasty face froze in disbelief, then went utterly blank, vacant blue eyes staring out at nothing in particular as he started babbling some infernal nonsense about "good business" or somesuch…

It was then he knew, with a dreadful certainty, that their goose was well and truly cooked!

The last thing he remembered was giving the order to abandon ship, before pitching himself over the rail…

* * * * *

He was sure he would have perished, had it not been for the sea turtles…

Massive, they had been… like miniature, large-flippered, swimming islands… and, clinging desperately to their shelled backs, holding his breath every time they briefly submerged, he let them carry him along, until, just as the sun was setting, he caught sight of the little island…

Abandoning his chelonian friends, he made for the island as quickly as he could swim…

* * * * *

Now, sunset found him pulling himself out of the surf, practically crawling up the shore, exhausted, half-drowned—besmirched, bothered, and bedraggled—wig and hat long gone, having been lost when he plunged off the _Endeavour_, coat abandoned shortly thereafter when the sodden, heavy wool threatened to drag him under the waves.

By the sun's dying rays, he walked along the strand, following the shoreline for what seemed like an hour (though he couldn't tell for certain, as his pocket-watch had suffered an ignoble death by seawater) until he happened upon sure signs of human habitation…

Two swords, crossed, stuck in the sand just above the waterline… and, not far away, a small rowboat…

"Thank God!" he said to himself. "I am saved!"

Upon closer examination, he saw that one sword appeared to be Oriental in design and make… the other—an especially fine specimen of English swordmaking skill—looked oddly familiar. He could have sworn that his friend and comrade, the late Admiral James Norrington, had had one strikingly similar to it…

A soft cry in the gathering gloom caught his attention… a _woman's _cry!

The thought suddenly occurred to him then that the owners of the swords might, in fact, be pirates! And the cry… which now was repeated, sounding even more distressed, more desperate than before… might be one of their victims… some unfortunate girl, no doubt, abducted against her will, brought to this isolated spot for the most nefarious of purposes…

Good Lord! What if they were—he gulped—_ravishing _her, right now?

He couldn't very well stand idly by and let a defenceless woman come to grievous harm!

Grabbing the nearest sword out of the sand, Groves hared off in the direction of the cry, and soon saw the glow of a campfire, beyond a concealing ring of large stones...

There was a masculine grunt that told Teddy that he could very well be right in his surmise, and then a high-pitched feminine wail that fair raised the hairs on the back of his neck, rising in the night, seeming to go on forever. Surely, the blackguards were in the process of killing the poor woman… or worse!

Running that last few feet, he hurdled the stones, sword at the ready…

"Unhand her, you—"

The firelight revealed a tangle of naked limbs, and a nude male back and backside, glistening with sweat in the flickering glow. Two faces whipped around to look at him, shock, surprise, and horror written upon their features…

Two quite _familiar _faces.

Teddy felt his own face flush bright red, his cheeks burning nearly as hotly as the fire that revealed all… a bit too much "all" actually, as far as he was concerned...

"Ah… Turner, is it? And… Good heavens, is that Miss Swann?" He squirmed under their combined glare, Turner making a valiant attempt to cover his fiancee's nakedness with his discarded coat.

"That's _Mrs _Turner…" Elizabeth snapped, indignantly, dark eyes blazing at him, seemingly more infuriated than embarrassed.

His tongue felt thick and awkward in his mouth, and his brain had slowed to sludge as he struggled to find words appropriate to the situation. "Er… um… then, I suppose congratulations must be in order…"

Turner was squinting at him in the muted light, recognition dawning in his dark brown eyes. "Lieutenant Groves? Do you mind? This is my… _our_ wedding night," Will Turner said, threateningly. He rose, eyes flicking to the weapon still held at the ready in Groves' hand. "And, if you would be so kind, might I have my sword back, please?"

"Yes… quite. Of course." He hurriedly stuck it in the sand at his feet, and, averting his eyes from the sight of Turner's own… er… unsheathed weapon that also stood poised and ready for action, started backing away. "Dreadfully sorry, and all that… um, would you like to run me through now, or shall I just go and pitch myself back into the sea?" he babbled.

Turner rolled his eyes expressively. "For pity's sake, man, would you just _go, _and let me see to my wife!" he snarled, frustration inherent in his tone and baring… um, that is, _bearing_.

"Yes… well, carry on, then," Teddy sputtered, then spun and started walking, as quickly as his soggy boots could carry him, back toward the beach.

As he retreated, he heard the sound of laughter behind him, a riant blending of baritone and soprano, and his face blazed anew as the laughter became muffled, and then transformed into hums and moans of pleasure…

And he cursed the perversity of the Fates that would save him from a noble death in the line of duty, only to have him die of embarrassment and humiliation at the sight of Turner… _servicing _his wife.

This just _hadn't _been his day…

He was wet, miserable, cold, hungry… and sorely in need of a drink.

As he plopped himself down on the sand near the other abandoned sword, he felt something hard pressing into his right arse cheek.

Lifting himself up, he extracted a flask of brandy from the back right pocket of his trews. Amazingly, it had not been lost during his little oceanic adventure! Well, at least _one_ thing hadn't gone completely tits-up today!

Uncapping the flask, he tilted it to his lips, and felt the satisfying burn of brandy hit the back of his throat, and soon a quite welcome warmth gradually spread out from his belly and throughout his limbs.

He briefly contemplated taking the rowboat, and the remaining sword, and trying to find his own way back to "civilisation." Turner and his wife were wanted fugitives after all, and duty dictated he should make an effort, at least, to turn them in—to bring them to justice.

However, he also knew that they were criminals only because Cutler Beckett had had them declared so. And, after today, he had come to realise the man (God rest his deservedly damned soul) was nothing but a bloody power-hungry madman, not fit to command a flock of tittering ladies'-maids let alone a fleet of ships. God only knows how he ever was put in charge of military operations in Port Royal (though the peerage was notoriously rife with insanity, so he supposed he shouldn't be all that surprised).

With nothing to do until morning, Groves found himself at a loose end. He really needed to get out of his wet clothes, or risk catching ill. And, though he was exhausted, he truly didn't fancy curling up and sleeping on the cool sand, out in the open.

He thought, with envy, of Will Turner, the lucky sod, with his blazing fire, warm blankets, and beautiful new wife. Beautiful, new, _naked_ wife. Teddy smirked. He could really use some of what _Turner_ was getting tonight!

_Unless…_

An idea formed in Teddy's mind, thoroughly scandalous, utterly improper, and quite indecently delicious…

He _could_ creep on back, find a nice, secluded vantage point with a clear view of the "festivities", divest himself of his soaked clothing, lay back with his flask of brandy, and just enjoy the show…

The corner of his mouth twitched into a wicked little smile. The more he thought of it, the more attractive the notion became…

Well, why the hell not? It wasn't every day that a man nearly lost his life, after all! And after the kind of day he'd had today, he was long overdue for a bit of… _amusement._

Picking himself up from the sand, he dusted himself off, adjusted his trews, turned and started making his way, quietly, back in the direction of the Turners' makeshift wedding bed…

* * *


End file.
